


The Heart Within

by gameofdrarrymod, iNiGmA, PixiePaint, randoyoyo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Angst, Battle of Hogwarts, Drama, Drarry, Drarryland: A Drarry Game/Fest, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mystery, Post-War, Romance, Room of Requirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 11:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gameofdrarrymod/pseuds/gameofdrarrymod, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iNiGmA/pseuds/iNiGmA, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixiePaint/pseuds/PixiePaint, https://archiveofourown.org/users/randoyoyo/pseuds/randoyoyo
Summary: Harry Potter is that annoying git Draco Malfoy can’t stand. Certainly, he’s loved by the wizarding community. Certainly, befriending him would make a world of sense. And yet, all Draco wants to do is challenge Potter to a duel, nearly seven years of education be damned. But when Potter accepts, what Draco finds… may be just a bit more than he’s bargained for. It takes only a moment, after all, for your whole life to flash before your eyes.





	The Heart Within

**Author's Note:**

> The Shadowrose House Round Robin prompt:  
> "This isn’t what I expected when I woke up this morning." + 8th Year + Angst
> 
> Huge thanks to our amazing beta, [RedHorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse)!

“That’s bloody well just like Potter, isn’t it?” Draco fumed. “Of _course_ McGonagall would believe him over me.”

“Whoa there, Draco,” Pansy said, glancing up with her eyebrows raised, “I thought we’d gotten past the whole _Potter this,_ and _Potter that_ business.”

His pacing slowed only for a moment before continuing again. Pansy had suggested spending some time out in the courtyard, and Draco allowed it seeing as he could give his rant in any location. “Well I _would_ if he didn’t always get exactly what he wants.”

Pansy laughed. “And you’ve _no_ idea what that’s like, of course.”

Draco plopped down on the bench next to her, a pout on his lips. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure why the thought of Harry still got him so riled. He didn’t even know why it was so difficult to call him _Harry_ out loud. This was their last year at Hogwarts, for Merlin’s sake.

Potter was a powerful wizard. He’d proven that time and time again throughout the years. It would make more sense for Draco, a normally quite sensible person (if he said so himself), to befriend him. Potter could be a very good ally for life after school. He might even be able to help Draco during exams, as much as he hated to admit. It seemed that he had gotten quite good at potions. Or befriending him might lead to a friendship with Granger at the very least, who was much more on par with his intellect.

All of that made sense, and yet…

“Hey, Harry,” Pansy called, pulling Draco from his thoughts. The courtyard wasn’t particularly busy at this time, so it surprised Draco at the chances of seeing the exact person he had an issue with. When Draco looked up at him, Potter seemed frazzled. He had been focused elsewhere, hadn’t noticed Draco as he passed.

That’s fine. It’s not like it bothered him.

“Oh, hullo, Pansy, Malfoy. Doing all right?”

Draco scoffed. Like he was so ignorant of how their interactions should be going. Like Potter didn’t know that they weren’t supposed to talk so casually.

“ _Doing all right_?” Draco questioned, making it sound absurd. It was an absurd question. Too relaxed. “As if you’d really care.”

Potter’s eyes widened. “All right, guess I struck a nerve then.” He turned to head off. Just like that, like Draco’s response wouldn’t be worth waiting on. Draco opened his mouth to call after him, but was stopped by Pansy.

“No, no, Draco dear. You had your chance. It’s getting boring listening to the same fights over and over again.”

Draco was fuming, but had no other choice but to let it go.

It was a few days later before the next confrontation.

Draco was walking down the hall, for once without Pansy by his side.

He saw Potter walking toward him in the hallway, also alone.

It looked like it was going to be another missed opportunity for Draco to insult him. Just as Potter got close enough, he spat his vicious words.

For a moment, it looked like Potter was going to be the bigger man. Just for moment, he kept walking, but then he stopped. Eyes ablaze, he turned back to Draco.

“Fine, Malfoy. You want to settle this? Let’s do it then. Name the place and time.”

This was something that needed to be settled now. Somewhere people couldn’t get in the way. Draco straightened up with an idea. He knew just the place.

“Follow me, Potter.”

* * *

 

Draco was completely sure of his decision. He wanted to fight Potter. He wanted it so fucking bad. He wanted Potter to look at him as the blood pulsed in his throat, wands at the ready, hexes at the tips of their tongues.

Potter was going to notice him, once and for all.

He knew exactly where to go. A place where he and Potter could duel without being interrupted — not by Pansy, not by Filch, not by any curious teacher that might be roaming around. A place where he could get the confrontation he craved at no expense to his student record: the seventh-floor corridors of the castle.

No one ever went to those corridors anymore. In fact, they’d been abandoned for as long as he could remember. He didn’t even know what was in them.

They were the perfect place for a fight.

They walked in silence. Potter was just a few steps behind him, and Draco slowly curled and uncurled his fingers as he felt the shivers that having his back to Potter sent down his spine.

When he finally caught sight of the dark set of stairs that would take them to the seventh floor, he strolled forward, excited, impatient. But just as he was about to touch the first step, a hand caught his arm with a tight grip.

“Draco,” said Potter, his tone low, wary. “This is too much.”

Draco considered his words. Considered retreating. Considered turning around and telling Potter they could be friends.

He shoved Potter and threw a sneer over his shoulder, saying, “Don’t follow me if you’re too scared.” And then he went up.

He was almost halfway up the stairs when he felt it. An itchy, uncomfortable _something_ crawling up his forearms. Three more steps and he had to clench his jaw. Two more, and he heard Potter muttering behind him, a low, strained, “I don’t like this…”

When he reached the last step, he could hear it. A low, humming beat deep inside his body. It wasn’t fast, but it somehow felt frantic — like it was striving, fighting to stay alive. It felt as though someone was playing music annoyingly loud, except everything around them was dead silent. He clenched his wand in his fist, nails digging into his palm. His own heartbeat was rushing, his breaths shallowing, his body starting to sweat. But he couldn’t let whatever that was get the best of him. He was there to fight Potter, and so he would no matter what it required.

Except Potter wasn’t waiting to follow him anymore. He was stepping forward, brow furrowed and sweat collected on his temples, reaching out to touch the wall nearest them — a wall that was completely stripped of portraits.

“What…” Potter murmured, taking a few more steps. Draco was starting to feel like running away, but he didn’t want to risk Potter thinking he’d won, and so he did the only thing he could do: he followed the stupid Gryffindor into the stupid adventure, Salazar Slytherin forgive him.

The corridor got darker as they walked, and Draco started feeling dizzy, out of breath. For a moment, he thought he was going to throw up. He came to a halt and pressed his palm to the wall to steady himself, eyes fixed on Potter. And then he flinched.

The stone was hot.

_Thum. Thum. Thum._

It was like it came from inside the wall. Something about it felt sickening. Disturbing. _Wrong_. Draco hugged himself, breathing deeply.

“This way,” came Potter’s voice. When Draco looked up, Potter was turning a corner.

Dread filled him as he stumbled forward, holding his breath.

He almost crashed against Potter. The imbecile had come to a stop a few steps into the new corridor, staring at the wall in front of him with glassy eyes, his body swaying, his breathing ragged, his arms limp at his sides.

No. Potter wasn’t staring at the wall. As Draco inspected it more closely, he saw the lumps, the ups and downs of the — the wood. The creepy, bony shapes that seemed to follow a straight line until they curved at the end, all parting from a fissure on the wood that almost resembled the slot between two front doors.

“It looks like a ribcage.”

Right as Potter’s voice reached him, three very particular words came back to Draco’s mind like a long-forgotten memory. He didn’t know how, or why, but he knew exactly where he was, exactly what he was looking at.

His fight with Potter neglected, he looked for the tapestry that he suddenly knew must be hanging behind him. He only needed a glimpse of Barnabas the Barmy’s poor attempt at teaching the trolls ballet to be sure his memory wasn’t deceiving him.

In a low, nauseous voice that barely sounded his, Draco uttered, “It’s the Room of Requirement.”

“The — the Room of —” Harry stuttered, turning around in circles tirelessly to scour the corridor for clues, “But — That wasn’t here a second ago, right? I mean, we were just walking up the stairs to go to the seventh floor… I don’t quite understand…” He sighed and shook his head, “Right. Which is where the Room of Requirement is, where it’s _always_ been. Bloody hell, I must be straight bonkers. How did we — How did I forget — I — Draco?”

Draco sighed and massaged his temples, expecting a nasty headache harrow him very quickly. Scattered, nostalgic fables fled through his mind, momentarily hampering him from responding. Echoing screams of fatal curses etched in his brain, clicking into an empty cavity of something he couldn’t quite identify — the color red. Scarlet filled his vision: dusty, sooty scarlet that had no significance in particular to him, but was sorely _familiar_. Something akin to shriveled gravel scraped across his tongue, whispering incomprehensible paradoxes and tales of war —

Harry stumbled, and clutched his scar, entirely confused, as if it shouldn’t be so present. He’d always had it, and there was no real reason it _shouldn’t_ be there, but —

“Let’s keep going, Potter,” Draco ordered, absent-mindedly stroking his left forearm. He had always valued his skills of analysis and observance, always a leaping step above everyone else, but this was rattling him. The forlorn visions did not cease their bombardment. _War, an impossible battle_ — he shivered — _loss_ , _merriment of unity_ — he clenched his hands, gritting his teeth — _betrayal, hope of undeserved acceptance_ — _Avada_ — Draco pressed a palm to the ridged wall and sighed breathily.

“Malfoy — are you, er, all right there? I think there’s something odd here. I feel...” Harry vaguely motioned to the hall. “I feel like this is dangerous.”

“Ah, yes, the great Saviour of the Wizarding World, the Chosen One, revered for his bravery and rash decisions, is too _scared_ to walk into a mere _corridor_.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly, scrunching his nose with farcical concepts that prevailed his express of thoughts. An important notion was so close, lustrous and carnal, but he hadn’t the slightest clue what it was.

“I’m not scared. I just — ”

“Feel as if you’ve forgotten something more,” Draco simply stated, waiting for a reaction.

“I — yes. I reckon you are…er...”

“Yes,” Draco quietly responded, turning his head away from Harry’s inquisition.

“Right then. I suppose we should explore the hazardous, seemingly-disappearing Room of Requirement then.” He managed a half-smile. Draco frowned.

“I see no rational dissuasion. I’ve already reached the conclusion that my end will be your fault, so why not test that theory, Potter?” He lifted his expression in a mocking grin, then grimaced.

“Fine,” huffed Harry, already engrossed in the strangely melancholic aura the walls were emitting. There wasn’t a palpable clue: no distinct smell, origin, or mark of a wizard. Idly, he wished Hermione was there to help him — them — but quickly shook the feeling away. Without any basis of reason he could name, he had an odd _trust_ in Draco that soothed their predicament. He nodded firmly to Draco and strode forward into the hazy Room.

Vines were everywhere.

Inklings of ivory twigs branched into leaflets, formed strong columns of magic. Grey, almost, but as the non-sequitur duo continued farther along, silently ogling the increasingly thick limbs, the color gained more warmth. Ashen rose split into marbled ginger, which promptly bled into a bittersweet auburn. Harry sniffed again, hoping fruitlessly that they may have reached a cornerstone, but it wasn’t smell that besieged him — it was aching, lonely memories.

They stepped into them, the memories of The War, at the same moment that they crossed the threshold of the cavernous Room. It was like walking through fire, wading through water, breathing in smoke…drowning in the deep.

Draco gasped, stumbling to his knees, his vision flooding with memories of a bloodstained courtyard. Of the Dark Lord, his robes billowing about him in the wind as he strode forward. The Dark Lord and Harry, facing off in the Great Hall.

His arm was burning, almost past endurance. His eyes trailed to it, finding the ugly mark branded into his skin. Painfully familiar.

He was drowning in the moment of when he had sold his life away, his parents standing behind him in grim approval as the ugly skull was burned into his skin. Branding him forever.

_How could he have forgotten it all?_

“Crabbe…” he moaned, grasping his head in his hands. Crabbe had fallen, burned to cinders in the very heart of this Room. It had burned out, the Fiendfyre eating it from the inside. So how was it still standing here, so full of memories that cut like shattered glass?

“Potter!” he hissed, forcing himself back to his feet, glancing up at Harry. “What is this? I don’t — ”

But he broke off, staring, his question dying on his lips. Harry was inching slowly toward the center of the Room, where the vines converged, forming a thick tangle, a mess of color. Green bled into hazel, which bled to orange, the vines folding in on themselves, enclosing around each other like a cacoon. And at their very heart, he could see a face — chalky white and shrunken, but nevertheless familiar.

The vines pulsed, the whole Room trembling with the movement, rising and falling in rhythm.

_A heartbeat._

Draco stared, his voice trapped in his chest.

How many times had he seen that face — those _faces_ — round the halls? How many times had he secretly looked up to him — them — and wished to stand within their inner circle? But they were Gryffindors. Far beneath him. Even so, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling, that day in the Entrance Hall when their broomsticks had escaped into the night.

_George Weasley._

Harry stumbled forward on trembling legs, gasping at the pain that had suddenly blossomed in his scar. It blazed across the whole of his head, seemingly splitting it in two. And through the gap it carved out in his mind poured memories, filling out his head as if it were an empty bowl and they a river. His eyes stung with the force of it. Or maybe it was simply the tears, because it was all too much. To live all you knew — all you _remembered_ — of your life in ignorance, and then to suddenly find yourself facing the carcass of a war.

It _had_ existed, hadn’t it? They’d won…but was it winning, at that high a cost?

He remembered dying.

He remembered walking into a forest, laying down his life, giving it away for a sliver of a chance of keeping them safe. Even if it wouldn’t help Remus, or Tonks, or Colin…

He remembered names, faces, only to remember a moment later that they were gone.

_He remembered Fred._

A shattered wall. A last laugh. A ghost of a smile.

And George. George’s anguish. George breaking down in tears at the funeral. George missing dinners at the Burrow, locking himself away in the shop. George carrying the weight of the world, the weight of Fred, on his shoulders, wasting away, refusing help. Going missing. The frantic searching. Mrs. Weasley’s endless sobbing.

He remembered returning to Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione, intent on carrying on as they all waited, as everyone outside its walls searched and searched...

And then, somehow, nothing. No more frantic letters. Just the walls of Hogwarts, tall and safe around them, and a blank space where memories of Fred — _of George_ — had been. Where _all_ memories of The War had been...

He felt like his mind was ready to burst, the disparate memories fighting for purchase.

And yet, here was George, a broken husk of a boy, strung out before them like a fly caught in a spiderweb. His skin looked so dry, so papery, as if something had fed on him, had sucked out the force of his life.

Harry stumbled ahead, tripping over his feet in his haste to reach George. He fell forward, grabbing onto the nearest vine to steady himself. As soon as his fingers touched it, his world exploded in color.

He remembered the molten silver of cool grey eyes, peering out at him from the shadows of the deepest stack of the library; glimmering in the candlelight as they drew nearer. He remembered soft lips. The feel of them upon his own. The sensation of forgetting to breathe, and it feeling wonderful. The taste of mint.

He whirled around, staring at Draco, his mouth dropping open as his heart beat frantically in his chest. The sight of Draco’s silver-grey eyes stole his breath right out of his lungs. He took a step back towards Draco. And another. Until he was standing before him, trembling with the weight of it all.

Draco stood still. Silent. Staring.

Abruptly, Harry leaned forward and crushed his lips to Draco’s, drowning in the memories as he let himself fall into the kiss. He remembered the argument…Draco choosing his family, choosing Voldemort...walking away. The Death Eaters storming the castle...Hagrid’s burning house. Meeting Draco’s eyes after the final battle...knowing it could never be right between them again. The pain of it cut like a knife.

Draco wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer. For a moment, Harry forgot it all, forgot George — trapped at the heart of this Room, which, he realized now, was holding them all captive.

The weight of everything that had been missing settled onto Harry’s shoulders as he let out breath after shaky breath into Draco’s neck.

This...this didn’t make any sense. How could he have forgotten George or Fred or The War or the fallen or _Draco_?

 _Draco_ who was filling his memory as something urgent and important and needed.

He’d just kissed Draco... _Merlin_ , he’d just kissed him and he remembered it like it was all he knew, like he needed it like air, like they’d spent night after night lazily exploring and chatting and just _being_ with each other.

No Chosen One garb. No expectations. No responsibility to be the one to set the example, no need to be in charge or always know what to do or answer for every occurrence.

He had just been with Draco. And he had just been _Harry_.

Then Voldemort came back, and the Malfoys — including Draco — took the Mark.

Harry pulled away from the embrace to grab Draco’s left arm, tracing the heinous lines with light fingertips before leaning to press a kiss to his forearm.

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He threaded his other fingers through Harry’s hair and he heard a noise of appreciation. He _knew_ that was what Harry liked. Somehow, he was familiar with how Harry responded to things.

The memories bursting forth continued on for them both — all of their happy times together. But as the seconds ticked by they remembered, also, how all of that was taken away. How the sun full of light and warmth had been stamped out to only leave a cold, empty husk.

It was The War. It was Draco’s choice.

Harry could never blame him for choosing his family. As much as he hated to admit, he wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had been placed in a similar situation. Growing up without his parents didn’t allow him to understand what it was like to be in such a position. But he did recognize that Draco’s loyalty and fear for his family’s well-being had hindered him from seeing just how dark their side was. Just how wrong and corrupt and evil.

Judging by the tears pooling in Draco’s eyes, Harry knew he must remember it all now too. How close they had once been. And how much their split felt like an actual rift had been formed right through his heart, like a chasm had just opened up within his chest.

“Harry, I — ”

He cut him off by pulling him into another sloppy kiss, this one even more brief, before pulling away again.

“ _Draco_.” A broken whisper as his eyes searched Draco’s face. He wondered how he had ever forgotten that face had once been his — those eyes, that nose, those lips; all perfect, _perfect_. “How could I have forgotten?”

“Harry, I don’t...I don’t know, but The _War_ , it…it caused so much harm. I don’t…This is all too much, I’ve forgotten too much.”

Their hands were grasping each other’s shirts — that desperate clawing the only thing they could do, as if holding onto each other tighter could keep them grounded. Could keep them from forgetting again.

Harry’s hand trailed up to gently cup Draco’s cheek. Draco leaned into it.

Harry’s soft gaze slowed morphed from sad to longing to a grin. “This isn’t... _Merlin_ — ” He cut himself off as he broke into laughter, loud and raucous and uncontrollable. Harry pulled away as he had to sit down, his body momentarily out of control.

“Harry?” Draco asked, face scrunched in concern, “Harry, you’re hysterical, why’re you laughing?”

He couldn’t stop, just patted the ground next to him for Draco to come sit as he continued clutching his sides. Draco hesitantly sat down and Harry rolled his head over to rest in his lap until Draco carded his hands through Harry’s hair again and he was finally able to calm down.

“Harry, are you okay?”

“Am I okay, Draco? Am I okay? We’re trapped in the Room of Requirement — something we hadn’t known still existed until a minute ago — and we’ve just remembered that literally all life as we’ve understood it for these past few years isn’t real. This just...well this isn’t exactly what I expected when I woke up this morning.”

That was the understatement of the century. It was so absurd in comparison to the actual truth that now it was Draco’s turn to join in the laughter. The only form of coping they could manage, the only way all of the anger and the confusion, the grief and the longing, could escape.

Draco sniffed, wiping the tears from his eyes and then used his sleeve to wipe away Harry’s as well. “How do you propose we fix this, Harry?”

Harry coughed and sat up, his delusional grin fading as he surveyed the Room once more. “We have to get out, Draco, we have to — _George_. We have to get him out of here, Draco, we need to get him _home_.”

“Well, I…” Draco whispered, voice barely audible over the impending silence, not even producing a trace of an echo in the massive Room. He stood and ambled to the middle of the concentric circles: the center of the Room. The closer he traveled, the more intense the deafening quiet became. He could barely stand to feel its gelid pressure building, but he _couldn’t_ stop. Not now.

“George — he — ” Harry choked out, hurriedly walking behind Draco with wide eyes.

Draco bent down, reaching out a cautious hand and stopping just before he touched the spider web of heresy.

“Not as if I’m the one most equipped to handle this. I never had a bloody Silver Trio, you know?”

“For the love of Merlin, Draco, this isn’t the time for your petty little — ”

“I was attempting to make a minging point, but if your head is too enlarged to remove from your arse, I completely understand.”

A flush enchanted its path up Harry’s neck and onto his cheeks, the result of a conundrum of emotions he rashly decided was too complicated to think about for now. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled shortly, attempting to maintain his breathing patterns steady like Hermione had taught him. Draco always seemed to ignite his most… inner reactions, and he knew that he had to get some semblance of a rein on them — lest _another_ catastrophe happen amidst a colossal crisis. It felt almost ingrained into his routine to banter with Draco, but he stole one cursory glance at George’s warped figure and instantly sobered. Despite his adamant, lingering feelings, they were of no consequence compared to the calamity he had just discovered.

“You — you’re right, I just — When Ron, Hermione, and I were off fighting during… Well, last year, I suppose… I wasn’t the strategic one out of us three, not in the slightest. You’ve always been… I rush into things. I fight with spells and impulses. I can’t do that with this. Please, Draco.”

Draco gazed at him for a few long moments, an intricate sentiment passing by briefly before he granted Harry the smallest of smiles. A thin sheet of silk settled down in their argument, briefly but effectively quieting down their indignation.

“Right. I think…” He trailed a finger down the sooty roots, careful not to move too close to George.

A permeating fizz traveled between his fingertips and the magical tendrils, something not quite tangible yet still discernible enough for a practiced wizard such as him to detect. It was stifled, but he could feel its strength as clear as the sky’s view from the Astronomy Tower; raw, unadulterated power protected the branches that he inspected. If he closed his eyes, he could nearly perceive the circuitous routes the vigor stroked, thick lines of diligent protection, but it didn’t last long. There wasn’t any proof, and, yet, with the aura in the Room, he had a vile instinct as to what caused the memory loss.

“What is it? Tell me,” muttered Harry, brow creased. Draco hesitantly obliged, unsure and nearly unbelieving of his findings.

“This isn’t a spell. It’s too immense, too ingrained into the Room… It’s some type of magic I haven’t seen before. I can’t — It’s not dark magic, but it isn’t regular, either — It’s inhuman, I reckon, little strands and inklings interwoven too closely to be the work of a wizard. Ah, I’d wager it’s more to do with the school’s wards than individual intent, though…”

“Then what is it?” Harry demanded.

“I don’t bloody know!” Draco shot back, then shook his head consolingly, “It’s George’s doing, I suppose, but I do not believe he’s necessarily the one who created this — this _vortex_ of amnesiac persecution. He couldn’t have possibly done it himself…”

“Draco.”

“No,” sighed Draco, “I’m not sure. Out of all of the books I’ve read, I still can’t manage a simple — ”

“Draco, shh. It’ll… We’ll fix it. I think — it might have to do with the Room itself. The Room of Requirement is meant to fulfill our needs, er, our wishes, so if George stumbled in here, torn up about — ”

Draco quickly turned to Harry, expression alight with contemplation. He picked up on Harry’s notion and finished his sentence easily (naturally, in some odd way, as if they had previous moments like this…but this was not the time for tortuous reminiscing).

“About The War, about his — er, about his loss — the Room of Requirement might possibly have interpreted that as a threat to the school and created a precarious nexus of wards meant to help. However, that is clearly not the outcome. Actually, I think that’s brilliant, Har — Potter. Harry. Your idea. The Room’s purpose is to bestow upon us what we most truly…desire.” Draco averted his eyes, frowning. “Thus his complex feelings about The War must’ve triggered a precaution of some degree, a stricture designated for emergencies regarding the school, despite the obvious subjectivity of that rule.”

“The… obvious subjectivity? You mean to say that The War wasn’t completely devastating? All of its torture and suffering was for naught? Blimey, blooming hell, Draco, what the f — ”

“That is not what I meant, Harry!” Draco retorted, pale skin quickly sinking into redness, “I know better than _anyone —_ ”

“ _Do you?_ ” Harry snapped, and Draco recoiled at his tone. “I walked into that forest, ready to throw my life away for all of them. _For all of you_. And meanwhile you just, what, hid in this bloody Room just to take us down for _him_? And then let us save you when it was convenient!” Draco’s face had turned pale again, ghostly in the dim light. “I thought I had bloody _died,_ Draco. And Fred _did_ die. Is it such a surprise that George would stumble in here, wanting nothing more than to forget?! Maybe that’s why we all forgot everything too. Maybe his pain is just too much to carry! Even the Room wanted to take it away.”

He let his words hang between them, breathing hard, and they seeped into the very fabric of the Room, seeming to strengthen its holds, as if the energy of his anger gave it life.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, after a painful silence. “I’m so sorry, Harry…about all of it. Everything.”

Harry looked away, shrinking back from his burst of anger. Ashamed. “I’m sorry too. For yelling.”

“I get why…why you would,” Draco murmured. “Someday, I hope you can forgive me.”

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was something they could discuss. Later. They had a more pressing problem now. He looked around the Room again, his eyes trailing across the vines, the branches, landing on George. _They had to do something._ Without quite thinking it through, he abruptly made his way toward George, stepping over the vines blocking his path.

“Harry!” Draco said sharply. “What are you doing?”

Ignoring him, Harry drew to a halt before George and eyed him again. Up close, he looked even worse. He was thinner than Harry remembered, the hollows of his cheeks standing out prominently. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, his lips an icy blue. His eyes shut tight. Slowly, and against Draco’s admonitions to stop, he reached out a hand and touched George’s arm.

A pulse of icy magical energy stabbed at his hand like a knife. He stumbled back with with a gasp, snapping his hand away as if burned. The residual energy coursed through him from the point of contact, making him shudder.

“Harry!” Draco had appeared beside him, gripping his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He stared at George, trying to calm his racing heart. “But he’s not, Draco. He’s cold as ice.”

“The Room,” Draco said quietly, “I reckon it’s feeding off his magical energy. Sucking out his life force...”

He trailed off, not wanting to say more. But Harry understood as clearly as if it were written in the vines. Time was running out. He only hoped they weren’t too late.

He reached into his pocket, drawing out his wand, and pointed it at the vines wrapped around George’s torso.

“Wait!” Draco cried, “Don’t — ”

“ _Diffindo!_ ”

The spell sliced at the vines, exploding out of Harry’s wand with a force of magical energy. They watched as — almost in slow motion — it made contact with the living membrane of the Room. And abruptly, it was gone. Simply vanished, as if the Room had absorbed it.

Before Harry could so much as draw breath, a vine tore away from the rest and shot at him like a dagger.

“ _Protego!_ ” Draco hissed, and a shield flared to life around them, the vine crashing into it. The shield cracked from the impact, but the vine peeled away before the protective dome fell apart. Draco grabbed Harry’s arm and dragged him away, cursing. But it was no use. Even as they retreated, the very makeup of the Room seemed to come alive. Vines reached at them from everywhere, the tendrils sharp as steel.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Harry cried, attempting to stun one, but the spell only seemed to incense it.

“I told you not to touch it!” Draco managed, aiming his wand wildly around the Room. “ _Incendio! INCENDIO!_ ”

The vine nearest to them absorbed the flames, melting into a slimy mess upon the mossy floor. But it was no use — there were more coming, more than they could count.

“I had to try something!” Harry snapped, sending more fire at the vines closest to them. They shrunk back, hovering just out of reach. “We have to get George.”

“ _Get George?_ ” Draco shot more fire over his shoulder, hitting a vine that had been inches away from wrapping around his throat. “How do you propose we do that?”

“Dunno,” Harry gasped, whirling around. “ _Glacius!_ ” The vines before him froze in a sheen of ice. “ _Confringo!_ ” They exploded, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces. He pushed his way roughly forward, spelling more vines out of the way.

“Be careful!” Draco cried, hurrying behind him.

“George!” Harry stumbled to a halt before the broken boy once more. “Wake up! C’mon! _Rennervate!_ ”

There was no response. George remained frozen, still as a statue. And Harry could see the vines looming at the edges, their shadows stretching, reaching for his heart. Would they kill them, or take them too? Would they spend their lives locked away here — living in some dream where The War had never been and everyone they loved was still alive — while their bodies wasted away?

With a steely resolve he didn’t quite feel, he reached out with both hands and grabbed George round the shoulders.

The ice bit at him, pulsing outward, burning his hands. He could feel the warmth slipping away. The pain was indescribable.

But he held on.

“George!” he gasped. “Please! You have to wake up. You have to stop this!”

He heard Draco calling his name, but his voice sounded far away, insignificant. He fought against the cold, against the icy chill, willing his warmth to somehow find its way into George’s heart. He was sure, _so sure_ , that if George could just wake up, could see the nature of his reality, then the Room would fall away.

He shook George’s shoulder one last time, but nothing happened. Nothing so much as a flinch. The noise of the Room overtook Harry’s senses and he knew he, with Draco’s help, could probably fight to get himself out of the Room still.

But he would have to leave George.

And he was never going to leave George again.

Too long, it seemed, George had been alone. He was always used to having his other half, his best friend, his entire _heart_ with him. After The War, there was no consoling him.

Harry had been unable to help then. Unable to get through to George, to talk to him. Everyone else believed that he would just need time to process, but Harry knew better and didn’t try _hard_ enough. Make one more call. Knock one more time. Try again. And again. And again. It hadn’t been enough, and he wasn’t going to leave him alone again.

So Harry, looking at George’s still form, let a small smile appear on his face as he closed his eyes and let the vines and magic of the Room overtake him.

He let himself remember. He was standing on the Quidditch field, having landed after catching the Snitch at practice. George beamed at him, giving him a goofy thumbs up. The images kept flowing; more practice, in the hallways, meals at the Great Hall, and finally the Burrow. Those were the warmest. Every interaction Harry had with George. Every time George’s life impacted Harry’s, even in the smallest of ways. A smile. A wink. A wave.

Then the memories shifted. And Fred was there. Every time Fred was just as warm to Harry, every time George and Fred interacted where Harry saw, every happy, healthy, impactful memory.

Harry loved George and Fred. They were his friends. They were his _family_. There was nothing that Harry could do but feel content and loved and he mourned the idea that if it had not been for his accidental stumbling to this Room, he may have never known every memory he was missing.

What hurt more than the loss of Fred was that he hadn’t known he had existed at all. He didn’t have any memory to help his legacy live on.

He would have rather died knowing Fred and George than return to his non-grieving, ignorant life.

The Room _wailed_.

Harry’s eyes opened to a blinding light. A white void surrounded him. His ears were ringing. Nothing was there except for a single form in front of him — George, kneeling, head hanging. Then another form, this one more spectral but nearly identical, walked up behind George. Fred put his hand on George’s shoulder, looked up at Harry, and with a smile, nodded.

When Harry blinked, his vision was darker, the ringing in his ears intensifying before going quiet.

He heard Draco’s broken voice behind him somewhere, but he was caught up with the sight in front of him. George was awake.

“Harry…” he croaked, throat probably dry from the lack of water for so long.

“George!” he exclaimed, surging forward to his side. “George, _please_ , I’m here. I’m here for you, you have people here for you. You have to let us in. You have to give up this Room and let us _remember_.”

He seemed unable to speak, but he shook his head weakly as if to say he couldn’t, wasn’t able to.

“Fred didn’t die in vain, George, he — ” Harry was crying ugly tears and his voice was strained but he had to explain, he had to get George to see. “You have to let us remember, George. It’s the only way we can grow and heal and help others. Forgetting isn’t better, George, it’s not… It hurts not knowing, you can’t do that to your family. It’s better to heal together, it’s better to heal together, it’s…” Harry trailed off, his thoughts condensing to this singular thread.

He thought of Fred and George, of course, but he also thought of Draco. With their memories back there was so much they needed to discuss, but...it was better to heal together. He needed George to recognize, to give all of Hogwarts their memories, to…

“Better...together,” George said weakly.

And the vines fell.

“Harry!” Draco ran forward, the barriers of the vines that once filled the room no longer stopping him as he raced and skidded to the ground.

“We’ve got him, Draco,” Harry said as he squeezed George’s hand, working to get George out of the cluster of cobwebs. “We’ve got him. He needs to get to a Healer, now.”

“But — Harry, you just — after all the — ” Draco hesitated before reaching out, grimacing. “Your _hands_.”

“He has injuries, I can’t — ”

“ _Wingardium leviosa_ ,” Draco murmured quickly — insistently — and brandished his wrists upward in a flicking motion. George’s nearly-inert body followed, hovering several feet above the ground and stopping just below their line of sight.

Suddenly, they scattered apart with a collective shiver, faces weary with what must’ve been a final whim of magic: a last oasis of naivete that fled from the Room like wintry wind. Then, there was silence. A peaceful absence of a hum they hadn’t even recognized before; a brief respite. George’s movements gradually decelerated to a halt; his stomach tightened, his fingers twitched, and then he didn’t move again. Harry strained to hear George’s faint breaths escape from his barely-functional chest; Draco frowned.

“Harry. Harry, it’s going to be fine — ” But Harry could barely regulate his own breathing anymore, much less focus on George’s.

“The — he — oh, Merlin, Draco, he could’ve died, he was going to die, and he might still, and it’s because I can’t — I couldn’t save him. Er, we — we should,” Harry tried to produce words despite his rapidly increasing heartbeat and quickening breath, “George needs to — Merlin, he should be in the bloody infirmary — ” “We’ll get him there,” Draco promised, “He’ll be fine. I swear on it. Please, just — ” Draco reached up as if to carress Harry’s shoulder, an action that felt so natural yet distant at the same time. He shook it off and focused on his imminent duty.

“Th — Hh —”

“ _Immineo_ ,” whispered Draco, tugging Harry’s hand and briskly walking toward the exit with George floating behind them. There was an odd need he felt to protect, as if he failed to get Harry out of there as soon as possible, the world might burn; he was suddenly afraid of flames. They stumbled out of the double doors that were now free of vines and headed for the staircases.

They walked faster and faster until Draco wasn’t even sure if the paintings were moving anymore, but they didn’t stop; they couldn’t. Harry increased his speed until he was approaching a sprint, and Draco couldn’t stop himself from running quicker as well; if one of them tumbled, the other would as well. It passed in a blur of conundrum-rooted memories and shifting veils of confusion — lasting effects from the shielded curse — and they sped down staircases quicker than seemed possible. Reality, in some form of their perspective, was shifted; despite their now-complicated relationship, they no longer found themselves to have a problem with their new memories when they looked at George’s limp body.

Truly, there was no distinction between time nor perception as they moved; they were crossing corridors, then rushing down begotten halls, and then in the infirmary without so much as a word between them. Nothing happened — and then Madam Pomfrey shouted and students rushed in and Professor McGonagall ushered them away to her office —

And it was over.

“Boys. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but you have managed to uncover not only the invaluable missing memories of Hogwarts’ students and staff, but a heresy conspiring within our very walls even I was not wise to. You are both very capable young men, but I am puzzled by how you accomplished such a feat. How such a feat was even successful, how the Room of Requirement was malfunctioning… Harry, were you…” She frowned and gestured toward his forehead.

Harry wasn’t even looking at her. Instead, his eyes were glassy, a hollow look glazing over his ‘thinking face.’ He shifted absent-mindedly and gripped Draco’s hand, attention still fixated on a painting of a phoenix in the distance. Draco coughed; Harry didn’t respond.

“I think he — ” “Mr. Malfoy, I am not unsympathetic to your losses and newfound memories — just as we all have — but Hogwarts has tumbled into a blight of endless questions, and I need your cooperation in order to settle things into their rightful places. Even I am struggling with remembering The War — We all must overcome our difficulties, but my primary focus is answers right now.”

“Answers…” Harry echoed.

Draco squeezed his hand, and Harry started, pulling it away. Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and peered at them through her perched glasses, nose tilted. Harry idly thought that she looked similar to Dumbledore.

“Pardon me, but we — It’s time to leave,” stuttered Draco, abruptly standing, “George is — He will…” “We’ll survive,” finished Harry, rising as well and ambling to the exit.

“Gentlemen, that is not — ” “I think we have quite a lot to make up for, Professor,” quietly interrupted Draco. “Don’t you?”

She let them go.

Harry had only a vague recollection of everything that came after. Everything that happened after they stepped out of McGonagall’s office was a blur. He remembered only moments.

He remembered the feel of Draco’s hand, warm within his own, as Draco led him down a corridor that seemed to press in on him from all sides. Or perhaps it was simply the people; streaming toward him, calling their names in distorted whispers and screams.

He remembered a rush of them pouring into the school, crowding the Great Hall, spilling out into the corridors. It seemed to him like the entire population of the wizarding world, and he couldn’t quite understand how it was that they were suddenly everywhere, drowning him nearly as well as a river that had just burst free of a dam.

“Harry!” he remembered Mrs. Weasley crying, her arms around him, squeezing so tightly that he couldn’t breathe. “Oh, Harry, you found him! _You found him!_ ”

He saw Ron and Hermione’s faces in the crowd; Hermione grinning from ear to ear while Ron looked as if someone had knocked him over the head with a cauldron full of Confusing Concoction.

But the only thing that mattered was Draco; Draco’s hand in his; the swirling back of his robes as he led Harry forward, down the halls…and out of the dark.

The pieces of it all came together over the next several days.

Broken over Fred’s death, George had sought solace in Hogwarts; had asked the Room of Requirement to help him forget. But his grief was so deep, had stretched so far, that it had cloaked the entire school…and the Room had swathed them all in it — hiding their memories of The War as if a giant Invisibility Cloak had swept them all away; had fallen down over Hogwarts castle, sheltering them from the world.

The Aurors, the Magical Law Enforcement officers, the entire department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and the parents of every Hogwarts student in attendance — wizards and Muggles alike — had been camped outside its walls for days, trying to find a way in — trying to break through a shield so powerful that it could only be shattered from the inside. A shield that would only ever fall to the sword of acceptance.

And through it all, there was only one question that remained.

_Draco._

They met late in the night, in the star-filled courtyard upon which they had last stood firmly on opposite sides of the line. They stood in the middle of it now, the line lost somewhere in the black. The line didn’t matter anymore, it was now only a question of wading through its shadow. And Harry wasn’t sure, still, whether that shadow was something they could step outside of. It was no longer their allegiances that defined them, simply the weight of their choices. The weight of the past.

“I’m sorry about it all,” Draco said quietly, his voice still breaking the silence of the night. “For choosing him. Everything.”

“It broke me when you did,” Harry admitted, glancing down into the shadows. “It was the worst that I could ever remember being hurt.”

His heart still ached with the loss of Draco — with his betrayal. And no matter how much Harry had understood why it was necessary for Draco, that had not made it any easier. It still broke him to imagine the life they could have had, had it not been ripped away.

“Harry,” Draco said quietly. “I… I’m still in love with you. Despite the choices that I made, I never stopped.”

Harry inhaled sharply but did not speak; could not find words.

“The life we were planning — ” Draco broke off, his voice suddenly choked with tears. They seemed to weigh down on Harry, choking him too, cutting off his air. “Do you think…” Draco managed, “do you think you can…forgive me?”

“I — ” Harry gasped, finding his voice. “I can. I have.” He realized as he spoke the words that they were true.

He reached out, tracing a hand across Draco’s cheek. Wiping a stray tear from his eye with his fingertips. He pulled Draco to him, grasping him tightly with both hands; an action that seemed to make Draco cry all the harder. Harry let him, standing there with both arms wrapped firmly around him as Draco shook with sobs. Crying, Harry knew, for his family, for Voldemort, for all who had died because of his choice…he had never wanted it, after all.

When he pulled back from Harry at last, Draco’s shoulders had stopped shaking, and his eyes — while full of tears — seemed to be shining with a spark of hope.

“Harry,” Draco whispered, “do you think we could…try again? Start fresh?”

“Yes,” Harry managed, “yes. I reckon we can. One more shot.”

“No more screw ups,” Draco said, his smile shining through his tears.

“Except the normal kind,” Harry said, smiling himself.

“Screwing up the cooking?” Draco offered.

“Accidentally dyeing my Gryffindor clothes green in the laundry?” Harry suggested with a smile.

“Right. Accidentally.”

“Even if you did,” Harry said quietly, “I reckon I wouldn’t mind. As long as you helped me take them off.” He brought his lips close to Draco’s.

“Of course. How else would I put them right?” Draco whispered.

And then his lips were on Harry’s and Harry was kissing him back. And the whole night exploded with the taste of mint. And salt.

And as they stood in the star-filled courtyard, their arms pressed tightly against each other, rekindling love upon the stones that had just remembered the woes of battle, Harry knew that they could overcome anything. They had fought for this second chance; they would not waste it.

The memories of how they broke would be the vine that twined them back together now, stronger than ever — and it would be but a single branch in the beautiful, ever-growing garden of their life.


End file.
